


untitled (memories of a pedestal)

by frederickdesvoeux (doomdxys)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Episode Tag, Hurt/Comfort, Im Projecting, M/M, graham has sensory issues now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 16:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21413347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomdxys/pseuds/frederickdesvoeux
Summary: “we rose—” graham starts, his memories of the thirty-seven expedition flooding back to him as the ship creaks around them. he knows harry doesn't understand, but he knows harry tries.(after they get stuck in the ice, graham can't escape the thoughts from the 1836 frozen strait expedition)
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lt Graham Gore
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2019





	untitled (memories of a pedestal)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the rarepair week ! it was tender tuesday and i've no idea where this fic has gone. mostly this fic is a "goddamnit show writers and/or simmons, graham was also an arctic vet how dare you forget that."

there’s a soft knock on the door, a quiet ‘yes’ that feels detached from his own body and then harry is inside the already too small cabin, trying to take up as little space as possible. the heavy thud of his boots sends a reverb up the bed—more sound. it’s too much, it’s always too much. he can’t fault harry for caring, nor the wood for doing what it has always done. but it feels like too much. more unneeded noises to accompany the ice outside, noises that remind him of thirty-six. 

“graham?” the quiver in harry’s voice as he tries to keep his voice low is all it takes for graham to finally acknowledge him, eyes peeking over his arm. he can’t hide things from harry, he never has in the short time they’ve known each other. it’s the only thing he hates between the two of them, his desire for someone who tries to understand quickly turning into regret when harry’s face turns from sympathy into outright worry. he shoves his face back under his arm as harry kneels down in front of the bed, the sheer carefulness with which he tries to stay quiet almost unbearable to graham.

he expects harry to touch him, everyone always does, thinking he needs physical comfort, some kind of touch that grounds him to the earth. but harry doesn’t, he just sits there, waiting for graham to talk to him. 

“we nearly sank,” he whispers after a few minutes, lifting his head slightly so he isn’t talking into his own chest. harry’s still there, still on his knees. he can’t help but feel like he doesn’t deserve it, any of it. surely harry had better things to do than sit in his cabin waiting for some story he’d undoubtedly heard about in the news when it had happened. it feels wrong to talk about it as if his pain mattered most of it all—they’d lost men, good men. 

“in thirty-seven?” harry’s voice pulls him back. in thirty-seven, graham’s brain echoes, but doesn’t correct. he wrestles his arm from under his body, fingertips extending slightly from under the heap of blankets. harry’s hand is warm as the man gently takes a hold of graham’s fingers. 

graham doesn’t understand harry’s insistence that talking about stuff works, preferring to deal with everything from those years in silence, shoving it into a part of brain that he didn’t access, but he tries. for harry, he tries. 

“we rose—” the wood around them creaks like an unwanted soundtrack. “—a pedestal none of us asked for with a orchestra accompanying our rise to the top.” the metaphor feels hollow and sour, a shallow veil over the events that transpired, but he can’t talk about it outright. there aren’t words for hearing the wood break under you and praying that you won’t wake up with half the ship missing. 

they shift in the silence that falls, harry coming to lean against the bed, his arm resting on the mattress as graham slowly moves his arm away from his face. there’s nothing but kindness on harry’s face, the worry of a man that can barely grasp the fear of having to stand on ice threatening to break off below him. 

“the ice screams, harry,” he continues, his other hand grabbing onto harry’s like a lifeline, “it screams. it didn’t want us there, God didn’t want us there.” he can feel his grip tighten around harry’s wrist—the heartbeat a harsh reminder of where he is. where he isn’t. “when we returned—it’s a miracle terror’s with us today. there was water everywhere.”

the ice creaks again, longer, like someone opening an old door slowly on purpose. harry’s fingers gently push several strands of hair out of graham’s face and graham can see on his face that he’s at a loss for words. it doesn’t matter to graham, any words found would’ve never gotten him over the way his blood freezes when the ice creaks below them or made him understand why the stress and fear makes him want to lock himself in a cupboard. 

“can i join you?” harry asks after a while, pulling graham back from unsure memories and fitful sleep. the light is slowly start to dim beside them, mister bridgens likely having skipped the cabin on the lamp refill due to them talking. it makes harry’s expression even softer, the light reflecting in his dark eyes. graham can’t help but smile, weakly, but nonethenless he can see harry takes it as a quiet victory as the man gets up with a crack of a joint somewhere. 

he allows himself a whine, more because he can’t stop it than anything else, as harry lets go of his hand to undress quickly, his clothes heaping haphazardly atop graham’s neatly folded ones. 

graham presses himself against the wall of his cabin, a hint harry thankfully quickly gets. the weight of harry beside him is comfortable, the warmth he radiates, even with the small distance between them a reminder that he’s not back in thirty-seven. 

he grabs harry’s hands again, dragging them upwards. “thank you,” he whispers against the knuckles, a soft kiss following it. harry’s face is hidden by the shadows cast by the dying lamp but graham can imagine the sympathetic smile on it. 

he feels harry’s hands untangle from his, the fingers slowly, softly, wandering onto his face again. he closes his eyes into the touch, soothing as a thumb runs across the edges of his beard, across his bottom lip and towards his neck. the other thumb wanders over his eyebrow, fingers already tangling into hair. he can’t tell harry’s plan—he doesn’t need to. he knows harry won’t come closer unless he guides him. 

the patterns get repetitive, slow circles drawn above his collarbone and gentle toying with his hair. the ice creaks behind him. “it’s not thirty-seven,” harry whispers from the dark and graham hums in response. thirty-six, he thinks but that’s not the point. 

**Author's Note:**

> http://tobmenzies.tumblr.com


End file.
